Chapter Text
SIMON
I’ve had my share of odd jobs since leaving university. When I graduated, Penny told me that if I’m not set on a career, trying a few would be good for me before I settled down. I thought it would let me bounce around for a few months until something finally clicked. Instead, it’s 6 months later, and I’m about to start my first day wearing nothing but a speedo and makeup to look extra toned on TV.
I clench my jaw, reflexively clutching my bathrobe tighter around me. The makeup artist had me open it for a final “touch up” with bronzer. I just hope I don’t look completely ridiculous when they take this robe from me and I have to parade about with the other lads in front of all of Britain.
“You good, mate?” One of my coworkers—Niall, I think, asks, sauntering up to me. His pink robe is pulled much looser around his shoulders, and my eyes dart to the tufts of red hair on his chest instinctively before jerking up to meet his.
“Bit cold, innit?” I ask. His grin only widens, and he claps my shoulder.
“You better get used to it,” he says. “This’ll be the easiest part of the job.”
“Easiest?” I ask. By Niall’s laugh, I think my face conveys how I’m feeling—so far, the prep work for just walking around in our underwear has been torture. Sure, I knew from the audition I’d have to look a certain way for the job, but I never expected having to report to physical training to keep my body “camera-ready.” I really wasn’t ready for the crew to pull out makeup and—worst—waxing strips when we got ready this morning. I only hope I don’t walk into the workroom with a limp from that too-fresh experience.
“Wait until you meet the queens,” Niall says. My heart plummets when I notice he is being slightly serious. “You think the queens you’ve met in bars have been a handful? This pressure cooker—and the power they hold over us—it turns them into something else.”
“Psh, I can handle them,” I laugh, trying to blow off my ignorance on how queens usually are with customers. Penny would probably would say it was dumb of me to accept a role in a show about drag when I haven’t even been to a drag show, but I saw it as a perfect opportunity to better educate myself. I’ve only come out as bi to Penny and Ags, and neither were exactly the type to know where the local drag shows were. And I was more focused in scraping by in university than exploring my bisexuality, both romantically and in connecting with people in the community. I thought that working with drag queens as a member of the pit crew would teach me a lot about drag and let me connect with other queer people. But in hindsight, I probably should have done a little research.
Niall’s responding gaze tells me something similar—his eyebrow is raised in a way that says, I seriously doubt it but I guess we’ll see. He opens his mouth to say something else when the door to our dressing room opens. The rest of the pit crew fall silent.
“You’re on, boys,” our stage manager says, and the men closest to the door all shrug off their robes and follow her out of the room. Suddenly, my cheeks are flaming. It’s possible I didn’t think this career venture through. There are ten barely clothed men in front of me—my colleagues—and I am about to go on national TV in my underwear.
“You’re sure this is the easiest part?” I hiss to Niall as I shrug off my robe, jerking my head at the sculpted asses of our coworkers.
Niall gives me a resigned smile. Then he pats my naked chest, and I nearly jump. “Work on toning that blush down for the queens, alright? But nice freckles.”
My blush only deepens as Niall leaves the room, me trailing after him like a lost dog. We’re approaching the workroom, and I’m desperately hoping my blush doesn’t show up on TV, and then we’re marching into the room and I am face to face with the queens.
Every one of them is gorgeous, and for a moment I forget I have a job I’m supposed to be doing. I force myself to snap back into reality, obediently following Niall to our area of the set. When we finish moving the materials for the challenge, I sneak a glance up at them. From my fleeting glances, I’m intrigued, and somewhat ashamed that they are a lot different than I expected them to look. My only experience with drag queens has been in campy media that made drag a joke. The ladies in the room may be comedians (Penny tried to explain different types of drag to me) but they mean all business. One next to RuPaul has straight silver hair down to her waist that matches her eyes; one to her left is wearing a dress that looks as if it’s made of fish scales and she’s a mermaid out of the water. But I’m compelled the most by the one across from me, wearing an indigo cape with an inner layer of red, a tight lace corset over a short, black tulle skirt, and knee-high boots. I can’t stop looking at her skin. It’s dusted with silver glitter, so she glitters in the harsh TV lighting. Her raven-black hair is large but sleek, and when she smiles at RuPaul, I see that she’s wearing fangs.
I’m wondering how I can ogle this vampire drag queen while still being professional when RuPaul claps, sending me back into my body again. I foolishly hope, again, that I at least look composed, but a quick glance with Niall tells me all I need to know.
This job is going to be a lot harder than I thought.
BAZ
I should have strategized the best place to do my makeup. This lack of foresight has led the other London queen to relinquished the spot next to me without asking, interpreting us living in the same city as a sign we are sisters. Unfortunately for her, I didn’t enter this competition to make friends. I’m a prickly person to begin with. In drag, I’m a cactus. Carmilla has lived a thousand years and has no interest in petty feuds between comedy girls and pageant queens. She just wants to serve artistry that is timelessly flawless. Friends are irrelevant.
And besides, it’s a competition, and I’m a competitive asshole. I won’t be sending any fruit baskets to the other girls.
The London queen is prattling on as I finish touching up my lipstick, and I meet my eyes in the mirror for the first time since walking in. I was already aware I looked sickening, but I can’t help but smile softly at my reflection. I truly look like a walking, vampiric nightmare, and I’m obsessed. No wonder that ruddy-haired model couldn’t get enough.
“Carmilla, you’re up!” Production calls. I smile sweetly at London, hopping down from my stool and letting my cape billow as I stomp out of the workroom.
The team leads me outside, and I slow my stomping as I take in the scene before me. A large car, RuPaul and a photographer stationed in front of it, and—
“You’ll be posing on the car with members of the pit crew,” the production lady explains to me. My eyes are still frozen on the set, specifically the flustered, underwear-clad member holding a hose to his chest and looking at me like I ate his cat for breakfast.
A part of me is thrilled at that. But another part of me is strongly willing away my draw to him in the first place. I need to be focused to win this competition. Bronze curls and wide, adoring blue eyes are not going to distract me from that.
“Alright,” I drawl, sauntering up to the car. I’m not always the picture of confidence when I perform in drag, but modeling is like breathing to me. I quickly position myself and begin to work the camera, stretching my legs in and out to showcase their length.
The boys begin to draw closer, pouring water on me to add to the shoot’s effect. I clutch their biceps, all while focusing on looking sultry for the camera. I’ve studied the show for years and practiced my look for longer. I know I’m giving them everything on a platter, and they are eating it up.
“Bring them closer!” Yells the photographer. I’m briefly startled, as I thought I was bringing them enough with them at a distance, but I’m not about to openly thwart direction. I grab at the pit crew member to my left, turning my head slightly to look at him. My heart catches in my throat when I realize it’s the same one who was checking me out in the workroom. His blue eyes bulge when my nails dig into his muscle, trying to pull him closer to me. With his adoring, albeit puppy-dog-look and my perfected seductive gaze, I think for a second, I may have won this mini-challenge.
Until the next moment, when I’m completely doused with his hose to my face.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” he prattles in horror. I hear production call for a five-minute break as I try to collect myself. I’m blinking back water, and my wig is completely plastered to my forehead, but I can see his eccentric movements through it. He’s dropped the hose, and is wildly searching for something—a towel, or the details of his contract, perhaps—but he halts when I step off the car and grab him, forcing him to look up at me.
“Are you some kind of imbecile?” I demand. He flinches backwards, but I press on. “How did you get hired if you can’t hold a hose still! You’ve completely ruined this corset. Is it your goal to make the contestants look like unprofessional twats?”
“It was an accident!” He yells back. I’ll admit, I’m taken aback that he’s fighting me. I would’ve expected him to fold. Instead, his cheeks are red, not like they were earlier, but with a kind of fire. “Why would I intentionally ruin your shoot? I work here!”
He has a valid point, but I’m a fuming, soaked bitch. “Well, I’d work on your handiwork if you’d like to keep this job,” I sneer. I turn my back to him, prepared to get back on the car to try to salvage my dignity and any chance of succeeding in this challenge.
“I’d work on your politeness if you’d like to get more tips,” he mumbles, but I hear him. I turn around to face him, slowly, as if I am a real vampire going in for the kill.
“What did you say to me?” I ask, quiet.
He scoffs. “I think you heard. Queens get tips for being nice to their audience.” He trails off, but I could care for his hesitation. Any attraction I felt for him seems to have burned away. All I feel is intense ire.
I narrow my eyes, glaring down at him. “You are not my audience. You are an employee here, and you’d be lucky if you still have one. I could go to production and have you fired.”
“Fine, then! I’ll tell them how you’re treating me! That’s not good for the brand.”
He’s right; it definitely isn’t. Of all the seasons I’ve watched of this show, there has never been a spat between pit crew members and a queen. It would greatly decrease my chances of winning and being able to represent RuPaul internationally. The reminder of what I’m competing for—the notoriety, the prize money, the platform—forces me to level my head. If not for the situation, I would’ve pressed into Freckles until he quit. He’s still looking at me like he’s ready for a fight, chest heaving and everything. It takes more than I want to admit to force myself to back down.
“Just stay out of my way,” I growl, leaving him nearly panting. His fellow pit crew member—a redhead—gives me an awkward smile as I climb back onto the car. The crew comes back—minus Freckles—and we wrap up the shoot, the photographers deciding to keep some of the shots before the hose incident. Satisfied, I move to leave the floor, but the remaining pit crew member grabs my arm. I yank my arm out of his grip, but wait for him to speak.
“Look, please don’t get Simon fired,” he whispers. “He really needs a stable job. Plus, he was really nervous to be around you…”
I raise an eyebrow. “So it’s my fault he’s unable to hold a hose stable.” My chest doesn’t clench when he says Freckles, or Simon, was on edge to be near me.
Red winces. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just, he’s a good guy. Please don’t go to production.”
He walks away, and I weigh the options. On one hand, Simon was completely unprofessional, from his ability to do his job without drenching the first queen who touches him to arguing with me afterwards. He could continue to work this way in future challenges. What if he ruins another challenge for me? Worse, I could get caught arguing with him on camera. The producers would eat up a plotline like that. One wrong word, and I’d be the season’s villain.
My heart races at the thought of it—how easy it would be for the edits to be made with my demeanor and attire. How it would lead to hate mail, and lack of financial support from the fandom I’m inches from grasping. I can’t let that happen. There is too much riding on my success in this show for this Simon to ruin. I should really speak to someone about him. I’m resolved to do so, when I walk back into the workroom and see a bare, freckled back bent over my workstation.
I freeze. My jaw falls slack as I watch him leave a note, then scurry out of the room. I tell myself I don’t want to read it, but when I stalk over to my bench, I reach for it before the towels.
“Sorry again. I’ll really leave you alone. Also, I’ll pay to replace the corset, but giving contestants “gifts” during the competition is illegal, so this is like a ‘coupon.’ It’s also your first tip, you’re welcome, dick.
-Simon Snow”
I scowl. What am I supposed to glean from that? That he’s harboring a grudge, too, but willing to stay away from me? Against my will, I see him in my mind again, looking at me with stupefied adoration. I will it away, recognizing that his feelings towards me have been completely changed. But a deeper, more desperate part of me holds onto that image. Worse, I realize that his passive aggressive note entices me more than his swooning ever did. It sways the bitterest parts of me. I know with hollow certainty I can’t report him to production.
Toweling off my hair, I can only hope I haven’t doomed my career for Simon Snow’s sake.